


True Colours

by glitteratiglue



Series: TNG '80s [1]
Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Bechdel Test Pass, Drinking, Families of Choice, Female Friendship, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-14 14:30:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3414140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitteratiglue/pseuds/glitteratiglue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A crate of clothes from Lwaxana arrives on the <em>Enterprise</em>; hilarity (and drinking) ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	True Colours

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cosmic_llin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmic_llin/gifts).



> I decided to do a series of TNG friendship fics inspired by classic '80s pop songs, because it just seemed like a good idea to combine two things that I love ridiculously. This is the first.
> 
> * S1, sometime post- _Haven_.

_"In a world full of people_

_You can lose sight of it all_

_And the darkness inside you_

_Can make you feel so small."_

**True Colours - Cyndi Lauper**

 

“And where exactly were you planning on wearing _that_?”

Deanna wheels around to see a grinning Tasha standing in the open doorway.

“Good, you're here." The ship's counselor lowers the dress she's been holding up to the mirror and sighs. "My mother just had another storage crate of clothes sent to me from Betazed. I did explain to her after the first crate arrived that I have enough appropriate outfits for diplomatic functions. Of course, that wasn't enough to deter her.”

“Well, that explains a lot.” Tasha's smile is knowing as she steps inside, letting the doors close behind her.

She takes the garment from Deanna and holds it up to the light, incredulous. It's constructed from layers of some satiny, mustard-yellow fabric, artfully draped to make a full skirt, topped with a beaded bodice and matching dyed feathers on the low neckline and cuffs; typically understated for Lwaxana's tastes. Stroking the feathers, Tasha remarks, “They're so soft.”

“Flanarian bird feathers,” Deanna explains. “They're native to the jungles of Betazed.”

Tasha isn't listening; she's moved to stand by the mirror and is holding the dress against herself so the gossamer fabric clings to her slim frame. Deanna catches a glimpse of her friend's face in the mirror, and there's an openness and warmth to it that's touching.

“That colour goes well with your uniform,” Deanna notes with approval. “I can see why you chose Security.”

“Mmm,” agrees Tasha, smiling at the gently teasing tone of Deanna's voice. “It _is_ hideous, isn't it? But I don't know, there's something about it.” She turns, first one way and then the other, scrutinising her reflection in profile while her friend looks on with a fond smile.

Turning away, Deanna examines the replicator and requests two glasses of a clear and incredibly potent Betazoid spirit (admittedly, only the syntheholic variety is available through the personal replicators).

Reluctantly putting the dress down on a nearby chair, Tasha accepts the proffered glass and sniffs it, frowning.

“What is it?”

“You don't know want to know,” says Deanna. She holds her glass up toward's the other woman's, and it's an oddly incongruous moment, two people from other worlds indulging in an old Earth custom. She picks out that very same thought from Tasha's mind and smiles. “I never used to do this until I met Will. It certainly beats the Betazoid custom of ringing a gong.”

Her friend smothers a laugh; she's obviously thinking of the disastrous engagement party a few weeks back. Deanna remembers it less fondly, an awkward prickle in her stomach whenever she thinks about poor Wyatt, but Tasha told her afterwards that it was genuinely the most fun she'd had in a long time.

They clink their glasses and knock back the small but strong drinks, Tasha bravely trying not to grimace though her eyes are watering.

“I'm not going to tell you I like it, because you already know better. You're right, I really don't want to know what's in it.” Tasha drains the last inch of the glass, laughs and shakes her head. “This stuff is ghastly. It's worse than what we used to make back on the colony, and that was pretty much made from manufacturing by-products. ”

The change in her is instantaneous. Tasha goes rigid, her frame visibly tensing as she immediately focuses her gaze on the flower arrangement on the table in front of her.

They've talked about _Turkana IV_ a few times, in the professional setting of Deanna's office, but this is the first time she's ever heard Tasha refer to it so casually; she clearly didn't intend to bring it up. Her friend's origin is still a source of shame for her, but more than that, there's a sense of disloyalty that she got out and found something better for herself, when she was no more deserving of it than anyone else in her position.

Crossing to the sofa, she sits beside Tasha, takes her empty hand and squeezes it, unable to let the moment pass without some gesture of understanding. The blooms in the vase are simple – white Terran lilies – but she notices the calming effect they have on Tasha at once. Thinking of a young, angry girl who clawed her way out of a world with no flowers and scorched skies to seek a better life among the stars, Deanna takes a deep breath, trying not to let the injustice of it all overwhelm her.

Tasha says nothing, keeps looking at the flowers, but she grudgingly accepts the touch, somehow sensing that it's not just for her benefit.

“My friend Chandra taught me how to make this drink,” Deanna says conversationally, after a minute or two. “We used to sneak off at balls and functions and drink it under the stairs. My mother hated it.” She considers for a moment. "Come to think of it, that was the probably the reason I started drinking it in the first place."

Recovering herself, Tasha takes her hand away and asks, “Chandra? What is she, a daughter of the Eighteenth House or something?”

Deanna laughs easily and gets to her feet. Tasha has always been cheerfully dismissive of Deanna's aristocratic heritage; it's one of the main reasons they became fast friends. Sometimes the counselor gets so tired of people tiptoing around her, of being treated with kid gloves; if it isn't in deference to her Betazoid heritage then it's because they fear her empathic powers - an equally tedious and predictable impulse.

“Third House, actually. It's vile stuff, but it does the trick." Deanna claps her hands together. "But now, to business. I can't look at any more of these dresses without being thoroughly intoxicated first. Another?" 

Tasha nods. "Please."

Two hours later, the coffee table is littered with empty glasses and nearly every available service in the room is covered with outfits in various lurid jewel shades. Tasha is stretched out on the couch, fuzzy and relaxed and wearing the mustard dress along with a matching circlet set with golden flame gems, awaiting Deanna's latest costume change.

For her tenth outfit of the night, Deanna opts for the more conservative choice of a sapphire gown with a high collar, coupled with a cloak made entirely of long strings of pearls. When she comes out from the bathroom, having added one of her mother's beloved fake bouffant hairpieces to complete the look, she thinks Tasha's laughter may never stop.

A couple of minutes after, they're slumped together on the couch; Deanna's head is spinning and she's leaning on Tasha just to keep upright.

“We're not sending that one back.” Deanna prods at the feathers decorating Tasha's bare shoulders. “And I dare you to wear it to Captain Picard's next formal dinner.”

Tasha laughs, giddy with synthehol and belonging, the jewelled circlet on her head askew and slipping over one ear. “It's definitely my colour.”


End file.
